


Everybody Loves the Goalkeeper

by Beginte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas is a centre forward, Established Relationship, M/M, Soccer, and they play football, there are penalties and it's all riding on Dean's perfect ass, this will be a 'verse, wherein Dean is a goalkeeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean and Cas play in the same football (soccer) club and are fighting to go into semi-finals. It comes to the penalty shoot-out, and it's all on Dean's freckled shoulders now.</p><p>It is decided, I shall now start a football (soccer) 'verse, because - Dean and Cas giving each other hickeys and trying to cover them up before going out on the field, and tabloids gossiping about said hickeys. All the making out and private 'training' sessions and just unf :D</p><p>There's an illustration! :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Loves the Goalkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get back into writing, and all this World Cup craziness has given me an idea. Also, there were some very convincing football (soccer) Destiel AU ideas floating around on tumblr, and I caved :D

 

* * *

 

Cas insists on calling it football, because – “ _There’s a foot and a ball involved, Dean_ ”. Still, right as Cas might be, this ain’t exactly the state of affairs from where Dean’s standing, and Dean’s standing in the penalty area, proudly guarding the goal from the enemy assaults, for which he mostly uses his hands and generally his whole body, thank you very much. So he sticks to ‘soccer’, though Cas will always keep trying to convert him.

Still, he’s not doing too good today. He’d failed to save one goal, and now it’s 1:1. Cas had scored so beautifully earlier on in this hellish overtime, and then Dean went and ruined it by letting that frigging ball into his goal, _their_ goal.

It’s the worst kind of tie that can happen – 1:1 in second half of the extra time, after over a hundred minutes of constant efforts and fails on both sides. Everyone is high strung now that the end of the overtime is approaching, everyone is piqued and making mistakes and trying too hard. Even Cas is playing aggressively as hell, attack after attack on the enemy box, even though he usually sticks to the plan of falling back in case of such a late tie. Because Dean is a freaking good goalkeeper, and he does especially good with penalties.

And Cas… Cas is a brilliant centre forward and the main goalscorer of their team. He’s all speed and stealth and strength and grace, and Dean loves watching him go, watching him on one of the big screens, and he feels all proud, because _fuck yeah, that’s my boyfriend out there!_ Cas is a powerful, fast runner, which got him the nickname ‘Angel’ from their club’s fans, because people joke he’d detach from the ground if he ran any faster.

Currently, Cas is powering into the enemy penalty area again, and Dean looks up at the big screen, since it’s easier to see than across a big-ass field when planted on ground level. He’s all power, speed, but also grace, elegantly avoiding two enemy suckers trying to take the ball from him, but then one of the assholes grabs him by the jersey and yanks, and they both tumble to the ground.

Majority of the audience boos and whistles, and Dean joins in, even though no one can really hear him from where he’s perched on the edge of his penalty area. The ref blows the whistle and a few players huddle around, helping both Cas and the douchebag up while others negotiate with the ref. The screen showcases a slow motion close-up of the foul, and Dean can see the look of furious concentration breaking on Cas’ face as that asshole’s hand grips his jersey and yanks. Dean growls, feeling protective, but it catches in his throat when he sees the jersey’s collar pull way, way aside and reveal the two hickeys Dean had left on Cas this morning (what, for good luck! He’s got a matching one from Cas on his own collarbone, and another one on his ass). This delicious view shifts some of his fury into smugness, especially because he knows that tomorrow all the tabloids will be excitedly gossiping about who could have given Cas those hickeys. Only their teammates (and their coach, Bobby Singer) will know that it was Dean.

At any rate, Cas looks fine, exchanging a reassuring pat with Victor who helped him up, and the enemy asshole gets a yellow card, as he should. Dean pumps a vengefully satisfied fist into the air and marches back to stand between his goalposts.

Cas gets fouled a lot – he’s the star player and the goalscorer, and to a lot of folks it’s worth a red card to take him out of a game more permanently. Dean is another player who gets assholes tackling him and then playing innocent – he’s the goalkeeper, and a famously great one, so even if a foul in penalty area is a heavy risk, he gets hit in the ribs every now and then in the hopes that it’ll make him save the next goal less successfully. So really, Dean should be used to it. But he’s not. Every time he sees Cas fouled, he wants the perpetrator’s blood.

The game resumes on a free-kick, and soon Dean tenses, because the opposing team gets the ball, and they’re running towards him. There’s gotta be like _minutes_ left till the end of the extra time, so if he fucks up now, they’re, well – _fucked_.

Their defence stays close to the enemy forwards, their midfielders rush in as well, and soon there’s a full-blown crowd charging down at him. Now, Dean’s got good reflexes, if he says so himself, and he’s good with keeping track of the ball and predicting where it goes, but all the same, when his penalty area gets crowded, he gets a bit nervous. He deals better with a clearer field, which makes him such a good penalty saver.

Which is also partly the reason why he’d screwed up a couple minutes ago – there was a corner kick next to his box, people jumped, bustled and fought, things got a bit chaotic but no foul or misconduct, there were six or eight people kicking and bumping into each other fervently right in front of him, and Dean lost sight of the ball for a second.

Which was enough.

He’s _not_ gonna do this to his team again.

The enemy centre forward is bearing down on him, and he’s trying for a long-distance shot. Dean coils and jumps, meeting the ball dead on, hitting it out with both fists. The frigging shot was so strong that he’d get his ribs cracked if he tried to catch it.

Still, his defence was epic and it gets the ball far away from his area. There’s some more chaos, and there’s _Cas_ , right here, even though he’s supposed to be closer to the other half of the field, to be open to take the ball from someone else’s kick. He scoops the ball nice and clean out from under an opposing player’s legs (Cas never fouls intentionally, bless the little angel) and he’s about to go into one of his trademark full-speed charges. He’s unstoppable when he gets into one of those, so people usually try to stop him beforehand, and son of a _bitch_ , Gordon Walker from the enemy team is sliding in, aiming at Cas’ legs…

“Son of a _bitch_!” Dean screams, loud over the yelling and booing of the crowd and some players, as Cas falls to the ground, face twisted in pain, both hands clutching his left leg near the ankle.

The ref blows the whistle, and Dean rushes ahead, because the game is paused, and even if it weren’t – screw it, Cas is down, and he’s _not getting up_.

“Cas! Cas,” he pants, skidding into a halt and already dropping to his knees where Cas is groaning on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of players from both teams. “Cas! Hey, baby, you OK? Cas, look at me, Cas,” he babbles, reaching out to touch Cas’ shoulders.

One blue eye cracks open, narrowed in pain, but soon both blink wider at Dean, soothed by his presence.

“Cas, c’mon, buddy, show me…” Dean yanks his gloves off and reaches down to Cas’ leg. Cas reluctantly lets go, still not making even the slightest attempt to get up. “Oh, shit, there’s blood. There’s blood!” Dean hollers at the referee who’s nodding, stone calm like it’s not beautiful, brilliant Cas being _in pain here_ , and he’s hailing two medics.

The red-suited medics rush up with some gear, and they gently but firmly remove Dean from Cas’ immediate vicinity, which – not cool. Still, Dean takes the opportunity to make sure that asshole Gordon Walker is off the field.

“He did it on purpose!” he thunders, joining the crowd of three other players huddling around the ref. “He was aiming for his legs, not for the ball!”

The ref raises a hand to quiet him down, while Walker smirks behind his back, and Dean fumes, reminding himself that he can’t tackle that smug asshole to the ground and beat him up bloody in front of thousands (and millions watching on TV) because he’s the goalkeeper and he can’t get a red card and be taken off minutes before an obviously approaching penalties round.

He abandons the ref and the smug asshole and turns back to Cas, to make sure those medics know what they’re doing. Cas is now half-sitting up, bracing himself back on his hands, legs stretched out as the medics examine them. And Dean’s really a pig, because despite the urgency of the moment, he still takes a while to shamelessly ogle the gorgeous shape of Cas’ strong calves.

After another quick exchange where Cas nods a lot (which is a good sign), the medics spray his injury with that painkiller-antibiotic thing, and Dean is right next to him, helping him up. Cas looks at him, nodding, some residual pain still in his eyes, but it smoothes away as he catches Dean’s gaze. A small, reassuring smile tugs warmly at the corners of his lips, and Dean forcibly reminds himself that while they can get away with a lot of hugs and ass-pats and kisses all over the face, a full-on making out session wouldn’t exactly fly.

Huh. He wonders if they’d get some sort of a card for it. Like, indecency or misconduct or something.

Still, Dean has to settle for pulling Cas close, slipping one arm around his waist while the other pats his back, their chests pressed together. He slides the other hand up and runs it through Cas’ hair.

“You good?” he murmurs into his ear, glancing at the ref who’s lifting a yellow card for Walker into the air. Asshat, that was a red card foul!

“Yes,” he feels Cas’ voice rumble through him as he nods, hair tickling Dean’s temple while the stubble rasps and scratches against Dean’s own as their cheeks press together. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Hey, I’m gonna filet the douche.”

“Dean,” Cas pulls away to peer at him, those gorgeous blue eyes solemn and also twinkling with life, energy and fighting spirit, “there’s only four minutes left. Six, maybe seven with the added time for all the fouls – don’t do anything stupid, we just have to reach the penalties.”

Dean nods, but pouts a little, just to see the look of fond yet indulgent exasperation on Cas’ face. Cas then makes a move like he wants to press a quick peck to Dean’s lips, as they’ve done many times during practice, but remembers himself at the last moment and just pats Dean’s cheek in a frankly _adorably_ awkward fashion.

The game resumes quickly and, just as Cas predicted, there are three minutes of overtime. But they pass without a goal (thanks to Dean who catches the ball twice), and then it’s brief intermission.

The electric tension in the air spikes, everyone is talking, both teams huddling around their coaches, and now it’s what Dean calls the Everybody Loves the Goalkeeper time.

Cas catches him first, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and presses a long, strong kiss to his temple, and murmurs words of soothing and encouragement.

“You’ll do well, Dean, this is your forte. But don’t set the bar too high for yourself, because then you’ll be too stressed,” Cas knows him so well.

“Yeah, I know, buddy, I know,” Dean pats Cas on the chest, and throws his head back, closing his eyes to take a deep breath.

More of their teammates glomp all around him. Kevin jumps onto his back and Dean grunts, swaying forward.

“Dammit, Kev!” still, the kid’s not that much weight – Kevin is brilliant, a freaking protégé, already being awesome at nineteen. Dean is proud.

“Well, freckles, everything is riding on your glorious ass now, but, you know – no pressure,” Balthazar’s English accent drawls obscenely into his ear, and Dean snorts, tightening his hold on Cas while Kevin finally slides off his back.

“Sure, no pressure.”

Dean seeks out Sammy in the audience – his giraffe of a baby brother is standing up like the complete geek he is, waving his hands like a windmill. So much for being a serious law school student at the dawn of his career. He smiles, heart fluttering warmly, and waves back at Sammy. One seat over, Sarah, Sammy’s girlfriend, blows him an enthusiastic kiss and waves as well, her two braids temporarily dyed in their club’s colours.

The nervousness spikes. The players are surrounding their goalkeepers and sitting on the sidelines, hydrating, panting and exchanging some remarks. Bobby hollers for Balthazar, because the coaches and team captains (which, unfortunately, includes Balthazar) are supposed to stand with the referee while he tosses the coin to pick the goal and then the starting team.

Dean looks around the stadium. This pause is taut, full of tingling apprehension, sort of like the last minutes before a chemistry test back in school, when the teacher is already in the classroom but doesn’t say to close the textbooks yet.

Cas kisses his cheek again, murmuring reassurances and love into his ear, and Dean lets his eyes slip closed, because he needs this one moment of peace and zoning out as counter-balance for all the tension doming like an apex over the stadium. When he opens his eyes, he’s good, with Cas’ beautiful, believing eyes looking into his own, with that sex hair all the more ruffled and dampened with sweat from over a hundred and twenty minutes of running around the field (one of the reasons Dean is very happy to be the goalkeeper), and that firm body pressed up against Dean’s.

Now the nervous energy becomes good, adds up to Dean’s adrenaline and makes his blood sing, and he’s in his element.

The goal is selected, and the enemy goalkeep is supposed to be saving first. Bobby and Balthazar come back to the huddle to select the scorers and set up the order. Bobby clasps a hand on Dean’s shoulder and nods, his eyes conveying all that needs to be said, and Dean nods back. Yeah, he’s good and ready.

“Alright, idjits, honesty time – who’s beat?” Bobby asks. They’re all mangled, drenched in sweat, panting and exhausted, but most are still good to fight. Two or three guys honestly raise their hands, and Bobby nods. “Fine. Balthazar, Kevin, Cas, of course… Victor, how’s your leg?”

“Good, I can shoot if you need me.”

“You’re in, boy. And… oh, what the hell. Ash, you’re in.”

“Yes, sweet,” Ash pumps a fist into the air.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Bobby growls. “Cas, you’re going in third. They’re scared of you, so we’ll delay it a bit. Kevin, you go first. Victor, you go second, and then Balthazar, you’re fourth. Ash, you’ll go last, god willing we’ll never have to reach you. Now, Dean – don’t aim too high, you’re not trying to set any records here, you’re trying to get us into semi-finals. Most penalties get scored anyway, and it’s almost a fluke who wins. You save three and we’re frigging _golden_ , so really, don’t aim for more than two.”

“Got it.”

Soon enough, Kevin scores the first penalty. The crowd goes wild and their team, huddled obligatorily in the middle of the circle, passes around hugs. Kevin, the limpet, jumps on Balthazar’s back this time, because Dean’s about to go, and Cas’ painkiller might wear off at any minute.

And then it’s Dean’s first turn, and he gets one last round of pats and half-hugs. Cas stops him just as he’s about to leave the circle, and he stands in front of him, takes his hands and presses a kiss to each glove, eyes never leaving Dean’s. It’s a small ritual of theirs, and Dean bites his lip not to let out the strangled, raw sound of pure, valiant love that’s tugging at his throat.

Balthazar wolf-whistles somewhere in the background but Bobby cuffs him over the head. Dean nods once more at Cas and marches off towards the goal. The walk is long, and for some reason he feels a jolt with each steps, but he keeps on walking, determined not to stare all the way at the opposing player selected to face him in this round. It’s not Walker, so he decides not to care.

He nods at the ref and stands between the posts, letting out a long, steadying breath, and makes sure his gloves sit well on his hands. He kicks at the ground a little and looks up at the approaching player. He knows the sports commentators are talking about him right now, saying he’s a monster at saving penalties, and he tries to let it make him feel better, not pressure him.

The ball gets placed on the white spot, and the player is very meticulous about it, fussing and constantly readjusting fractions of an inch, taking a step back and readjusting some more. It’s a distraction technique meant to pique Dean’s nerves and make him anxious, so he rests his hands on his hips in a brooding manner and lets the dude see he’s really not impressed.

Finally, the referee tells the guy to stow the crap and get on with the show, and Dean leans forward a little, muscles tense, attention fiercely on the ball. The player starts up, a slow trot, and Dean’s muscles keep on shifting minutely in reaction to each step…

The kick is aimed high and diagonally, and Dean lunges up right along with the ball, meeting it mid-air and hitting it away right from below the bar, where it would have passed through.

A wild roar rips through the stadium, people cheer and others yell in anger, and Dean cries out a resounding “Yes!”, an explosion of victory and energising relief bursting inside him. He leaps into the air, swiping a hand triumphantly, and runs towards his screaming and jumping team who are almost painfully obligated to stay inside the centre circle. He rushes into it, immediately crushed into embrace and showered with patting hands and screamed praises, and he laughs, Cas grabbing him into a tight hold and _lifting_ him off the ground with a thrilled roar. He wraps his legs around Cas’ waist and raises a fist in triumph, and he _might_ grind his hips into Cas’ just a little bit. Okay, more than just a little bit.

Cas sets him down and flashes him a quick, warning glare, but Dean grins cheekily back at him.

Victor is up next, and the opposing goalkeeper manages to save this time, causing Victor to get pissed with himself as hell

“Dean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, man,” he groans, and Dean pulls him into a one-armed hug.

“Hey, let it go, Vic. You were doing your job, dude was doing his, ‘s all good.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, you really have to get this one now…”

“Hey, ‘s not like you missed,” Dean nudges him, and Victor nods, still sour.

Dean goes out there, and he defends again, and the crowd goes even wilder, hyped up to near hysteria by the third save in a row, and second one from Dean.

He shoots a charming grin towards one of the cameras by the goal and winks at it. He’s wearing his black goalkeeper’s outfit today, and he has it on _very_ good authority that he looks really hot in it. Every time he wears it, Cas rips it off of him the minute they lock the door of their room, and the way he proceeds to have his wicked way with Dean then, all hot and feverishly greedy… well, Dean better stop this line of thought right here, before he pops a boner on live television.

And now it’s Cas’ turn at taking the shot, and Dean gives him a long hug and presses his lips to his neck in a way that he’s sure no camera will catch.

“Go fly, angel,” he murmurs, pulling away, and Castiel quirks a confident smile at him, eyes twinkling in that mischievous way that does all sorts of hugely unfair things to Dean’s nether regions.

Cas marches off, and the white outfit with traces of blood red and occasional black somehow makes him look like a crusader or something equally poetic and hot. And watching him score… damn, Dean could watch it for hours. Cas is all strength and lethal grace. He has no routine or settled-in styles, and he’s insanely creative. Today, his penalty kick is clean and direct, the ball flying straight into the centre of the net, while the goalkeeper lunges away from it, to the side, misled by Cas’ run-up.

The enemy team groans and yells, while Dean leaps into the air, whooping.

“Yeah! Go Cas!” he grins, beaming, catching Castiel’s gaze, and Cas grins right back, blue eyes shining with energy.

When Cas returns to the circle, he’s swallowed by the team absorbing him into one giant hug with Dean at the centre of it.

“One more, Dean, one more,” Balthazar pulls him into a crushing hug. “One more and we’re set!”

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is just a hot, gravelly murmur in Dean’s ear. “You’ll do wonderfully.”

Dean nods and leaves for the goal. The opposing team is now collectively on their knees, hands clasped, some murmuring prayers, and Dean smirks, because he knows he’s the one making them so desperate.

As he stands between the posts, he looks at the player selected to score now, and he finds himself locking eyes with Gordon Walker. The asshole who very nearly broke Cas’ ankle.

Oh, it’s payback time, bitch.

He watches in focus as Walker places the ball and takes several steps back, then a few more, and then one more, smirking at Dean. Unmoved, Dean leans forward, body balanced, ready.

Walker starts up, walking at a fast pace with occasional halts, and Dean keeps himself steady, waiting him out… Walker stops right before the ball, and Dean yanks back his instinct to lunge, and then the kick comes. It’s low and far to the side, and Dean throws his entire body sideways in a strong leap, the ball flying faster than he does…

The ball collides with his chest, punching out his breath, and he locks his arms around it, rolling onto it and curling himself around it, desperately tenacious.

Blood is hums in his ears in a dull whoosh, and only when he at last manages to take a breath, the tremendous roar of the stadium rushes into him along with the oxygen. It’s impossibly loud, so loud that he cannot hear himself as he rolls onto his back, releasing the ball and giving a mighty scream himself, one fist thrust up into the air.

He’s done it.

 _They’ve_ done it. They’ve won the game!

His teammates break free from the centre circle at last, spilling out like a flock of white birds, and Cas is running at the very head, so fast, his arms spread out, and Dean could swear he really does have wings. Cas reaches him and tumbles down, covering Dean’s body with his own, and Dean can hear him laughing and yelling right next to his ear, face buried in Dean’s shoulder, and they roll together. The rest of their team joins in, all piling up on Dean and Cas, and soon Dean’s ribs are dangerously bending, but he doesn’t care.

There’s loud music booming from the speakers, overlapping with the wobbly echo of the announcer proclaiming the win of their club and the ascension to the semi-finals, and Dean laughs and whoops and grins, gripping Cas tight to himself.

Eventually, Cas helps him up, and they all huddle, Kevin once more jumping onto his back. Dean grins, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s, looking into those smiling, shining blue eyes.

“I’m so proud of you, Dean.”

Dean makes a strangled sound, choking up, but swallows it down, braving his own emotional incompetence, because this is _Cas_.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m proud of you too, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Next episode of the 'verse - some sexiness happens, tabloids talk about Cas' hickeys revealed in this story, and also about Dean's mysterious handprint tattoo, and oh dear, whose hand could this possibly be...?


End file.
